Now You Don't
by lastcrazyhorn
Summary: Sequel to "Now You See Me" story, in which Hotch gets kidnapped and sexually abused by an unsub. This is the recovery story of what happens after being saved. Possibility for light slash in the future.
1. Bad Dreams

"_Grief isn't a pissing contest. Just because someone has experienced more than you doesn't make your pain any less significant." - lastcrazyhorn_

**Chapter 1 – Bad Dreams**

Waking up with an erection after having nightmares about being raped was not the way he wanted to start out his day. It was bad enough that Dave was making him stay over at his house, but now this?

And of course, he couldn't just will the damn thing to go away.

He tried to think of soft things, nice pleasant things like breasts. They were enjoyable to imagine after a night of painful memory inspired nightmares. He could see himself sucking on the nipples of one as his hands slowly moved up and down on his cock, pretending the heat was actually coming from between the legs of some imaginary woman who had yet to be wooed by him.

Sometimes that worked. Sometimes he could get off like that.

And then there were the mornings where such a daydream irrevocably ended up making him think of Haley. Mornings like this. Mornings where the only way to make it to the breakfast table was by taking a shower cold enough to leave his teeth chattering long after he was dry.

It was safe to say that today wasn't going to be a good day.

. . .

He had tried to tell Dave not to make a fuss for him. He had tried to make the man leave him alone.

Clearly, he hadn't tried hard enough, because not only was he staying at Dave's house, but his old friend was also taking time off work to spend it with him.

The really infuriating part of being around Dave was his completely unflappable nature. Hotch couldn't do a damn thing to piss the man off, regardless of what he did. He'd told the man to fuck off and Dave had left the room without a word. When Hotch had finally gotten up the nerve to apologize, he'd found Dave at his computer working on his next book, totally absorbed in the task.

He hated being on forced leave. He hated not being able to go and do what he was _good _at. He knew that Morgan was likely doing an excellent job at stepping in for him—especially considering how well he had done before, but that did nothing to help the small part of him that was feeling _jealous_ towards the younger man for doing _his_ job.

And then there was the fear. It was always there, sitting next to him, watching over his shoulder, hanging out in the back of his mind. He could feel eyes watching him when out on the street, even if he was the only one there. Irrational fear and paranoia, he could practically hear Reid's voice in his head spouting off a set of endless statistics about the subject.

So what if Michael was in jail? That hadn't stopped George Foyet, now had it?

If all of that wasn't bad enough, the tests on whether he had contracted anything from Michael had yet to come back, giving him yet another thing to worry about as he sat around and did fucking nothing.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He worked out. He read. He studied cases, kept in contact with his team—they were still _his_ team, regardless of what fucking Strauss had to say about it—watched movies with whosever turn it was to babysit him that night. Hotch put his head in his hands. Intellectually he knew that it wasn't babysitting. He _knew_ that they just wanted to make sure he was okay by supporting him in his time of need. He got that. He wasn't angry at them, but a lot of times it came out that way, making him feel guilty on top of everything else.

His emotions seemed to be rollercoastering up and down peaks at unusually fast speeds. Sometimes he was fine, going about his day almost normally (if he could forget about where he was _supposed _to be), and then out of the blue, something would hit him and he'd crumble, for lack of a better word. At those times, he'd do one of two things: Either he'd withdraw and hide out miserably in his room for the rest of the day, or he'd suck it up and talk to whomever was unlucky enough to see his breakdown. Usually it was Dave that he ended up talking with, but sometimes it was Derek, and once it had even been Spencer. He was making an effort to call them by their first names while away from the office, if only to help keep separate his emotional states—his _numerous_ emotional states.

It was surprisingly easy to talk to Derek about the feelings and problems that came with all that he had been through, even those he wasn't actually willing to speak out loud. He knew _why_ that was, but he had never thought about it as much as he had in the weeks after being released from the hospital.

Weeks? Well hell, now that he looked at it, he saw that it had actually been just over two months since the beginning of his forced leave.

He thought back to the bathroom where Michael had led him on that first morning following his initial rape. He tried to focus on his memories of the surroundings rather than his memories of the actual violent acts that he had been forced to endure while there. The thing that had caught his eye at the time had been the very noticeable lack of mirrors. It was this thought that his mind kept returning to now, all of this time later. At the time it had seemed odd, but now Hotch was afraid that he was developing the same problem. He had problems looking at himself for any length of time now.

Michael had _wanted_ him for more than just his strength or his charisma. Hotch could remember all too well what it had felt like to have the other man's eyes on his body. It was the sort of memory that kept him awake at night, fingernails digging into his palms as he tried to keep from crying aloud, his anger mysteriously absent in the lonely darkness of his room.

. . .

"Aaron?" Dave said, interrupting his brooding one late night.

Inwardly he flinched at the sound of his name coming from another man's lips, but outwardly he kept his composure.

"Dave? Something wrong?"

_Because I'm perfectly fine, just ducky in fact, sitting here at 3 am staring at the wall, remembering past regrets and shame that I have absolutely no way of fixing or controlling or—_his thoughts were cut off when he finally noticed Dave's insistent stare.

"Not with me," his old friend said, stepping farther into his room and crossing his arms as though waiting for Hotch to reveal his innermost thoughts just like that.

"Hm." _Come on Hotch; even you know that was a pathetic answer. _

"You don't have to do this alone, you know," Dave said, taking a step closer to where Hotch was still propped upright in his bed.

Hotch noticed with interest that Dave asked nothing along the lines of _how long_ he was going to keep doing this.

"This?" _Dave is not obtuse Hotch!_

A sigh from his friend and he suddenly felt a wave of guilt. Hotch looked down at the bedspread and saw that his hands were balled up in the covers. It took a conscious effort on his part to relax.

"Beating yourself up every night is not going to change what happened Aaron," Dave was standing right next to his bed, less than two feet away. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Sure," he waved at a spot on the side of the bed and scooted over a bit to make room for the other man.

"I mean it Aaron," Dave's face was on his level and he found himself afraid to look away from his deep searching eyes. "You're not going to get over this just by suppressing all your feelings and hoping they go away. It doesn't work that way."

"I-I know that Dave," Hotch answered slowly, suddenly having to blink hard against the well of emotion he felt surge through him with just that small admittance. Frustrated with himself, he ran a hand through his hair as he fought with himself to find a way to say what he wanted.

"I'm not going anywhere Hotch," Dave still seemed so damn calm, so composed, even though it was the middle of the night and they were both in their pajamas.

Hotch couldn't look up, couldn't hold the other man's gaze any longer.

"Remember when I was attacked by Foyet?" He wasn't aware that his voice had dropped into a near whisper, so caught up in his memories as he was.

"What about it?" Dave asked patiently.

Hotch licked his lips and chewed on the inside his mouth for a moment more before finally managing to tell his friend of the secret he had shared with none other until that moment.

"He didn't just stab me," he answered very softly. Distantly he could feel Dave's hand tentatively touching his arm, but it didn't bother him enough to say something about it. "He—," Hotch took a deep breath, wondering briefly what Dave's reaction would be. "He _touched _me, thr-through my slacks," he continued, unconsciously bringing his legs up to his chest as he relived the sensation of the other man's fingers on his groin, touching the shaft of his penis.

Dave's hand tightened briefly on his arm, and then somehow his friend was directly beside him, holding his hand as though they were both ten and that sort of thing was still okay.

"He molested you," Dave interpreted with a rough voice.

"He told me that he knew of the theory about people who stab because they are impotent," Hotch relayed in a slightly louder voice. "And then," he paused, taking in and letting out a few shuddery breaths. "And then he unzipped my trousers and touched his knife to m-my body, to my flesh." He looked down at his fists and was unsurprised to see that they had clenched up again. "He told me that he 'could make me more than impotent.'"

He clenched his jaw as he found himself caught up in that heart stopping moment all over again. The feel of the warm metal on his most sensitive of organs was burned forever into his brain.

"And then?" Dave had to prompt him.

"That's when I passed out from the blood loss. The next thing I knew I was in the hospital looking up at Prentiss."

"Do you ever wonder what he might have done to you after you passed out?" Dave asked him, casually voicing one of his longest held fears.

"I can't _not_ think about it," he answered gruffly, finally looking up into his friend's face as he did.

"I don't blame you. I'd wonder the same thing."

"Y-You would?"

"Fuck yes!" Dave answered forcefully. "No one is allowed to touch me without my direct permission, especially not my _dick_, Aaron. The same is true for anyone, even _you_."

Hotch blinked at Dave's sudden vulgarity, finding himself a bit surprised by the other man's bluntness.

"I wish you could have told me about this earlier Aaron," Dave added seriously, his unflappable façade finally cracking as his emotions about what had happened to Hotch came to the fore.

"I d-didn't know how I could tell you—or anyone," he answered, dropping his voice back into a whisper.

"I know," Dave answered sadly, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "But I should have been more persistent. I know you and I know how you bottle things up. I should have just gotten you drunk and made you talk." Dave smiled a bit grimly at that and although it was hard to think about doing, Hotch found himself smiling back just a little as well.


	2. Different Sorts of Caring

"_No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." C.S. Lewis_

**Chapter 2 – Different Sorts of Caring**

As it turned out, Dave was almost as big a fan of Star Trek as Reid was. Hotch would have been more amused if he hadn't somehow been roped into watching a marathon with them. As payback, he forced Derek to come too, just to have someone else there to talk to. In hindsight, perhaps he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Things were going well enough, he supposed, except that Spencer was late, which wasn't really that unusual. Someday he planned on studying the boy more in-depth to see if he couldn't figure out the reasons behind his chronic lateness, but until then he would simply have to put up with it.

Finally he was there, his body barely inside Dave's doorway and already spouting off statistics about the correctness of most of the science behind the Star Trek series. Upon hearing the voice of his little "brother," Derek came bounding in the room, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Hey Pretty Boy! What the hell took you so long?"

And abruptly the world froze around Hotch as his brain registered the word, "Pretty."

"_So pretty_,_" _Michael had whispered to him the first time he had raped him. Hotch could feel the other man's chest hair on his back like it was happening all over again. He _felt_ the sensation of slick fingers pushing their way inside of him, followed shortly by the man's thick cock. Sweat broke out on his face approximately the same time that bile began rising in his throat and suddenly, he knew he needed to find a toilet and find it fast before he further embarrassed himself.

Without a word, he turned and ran for the nearest bathroom, making it in time to close the door but not lock it, and then he was on his knees, his stomach forcefully emptying itself into the blessed porcelain fixture. His nose and eyes streamed tears and snot as one is wont towards doing when vomiting, but it wasn't until he had leaned back against the wall that he realized he was actually _crying_. Worse yet, his tears were still falling when he heard someone knock lightly on the door.

"Yeah?" He called out tiredly.

"Aaron, you okay?" Dave asked; his voice muffled behind the door.

"Sure," he answered apathetically, hastily wiping a sleeved arm over his eyes and face.

"Mind if I come in?"

"If you want," Hotch leaned forwards and flushed the toilet as he answered.

Dave came in, shutting the door again, and crouched down beside him.

"Flashback?"

_Profilers_, Hotch grunted within his mind.

He nodded wearily, once more running a hand over his face to check for any stray moisture.

"Was it what Morgan said when Reid came in?"

Another nod. It was easier to move his head than to open his mouth and risk emptying his stomach again. The feeling of Michael's hands and eyes on him hadn't completely dissipated yet, even with Dave right next to him.

"Anything in particular?"

Damn, Dave was staring at him again.

"When Michael—," he paused, not quite sure if he was ready to say the word for what the unsub had done to him.

"Assaulted you?" Dave interjected, finally leaning back and taking a seat on the floor. Hotch heard the other man's knees popping as he did so and felt both guilty and amused for it.

Suddenly he couldn't stand to avoid the subject anymore and felt an undeniable urge to say it out loud, even with the embarrassment that he was sure it would engender within him.

"When he _raped _me," his voice so deep, it was nearly a growl. "He called me," he paused, swallowing hard against the familiar sensation. "He called me _'pretty,'"_ he finally explained in a whisper. Fingers trembling slightly, he wiped his hand across his forehead, feeling the sweat that had begun to bead up with just that small admission.

"He tried to emasculate you," Dave nodded, his eyes narrowed and flinty as he thought about it.

Hotch nodded and shrugged at the same time, bringing his legs up to his chest once more protectively as he tried to work through the whirl of emotions that he could feel pounding away within his body. It was only as he blinked that he became aware of the tears that had been threatening to fall again.

He felt anger at himself that he couldn't contain himself in front of anyone anymore. He had long prided himself on being levelheaded and logical, and now he felt like neither. If only—if only the memories would leave him alone; memories of pain and disgust, for both himself and what was happening around him. It was almost as though they had taken up permanent residence in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down and never leaving him alone.

"Perhaps I'll tell Morgan to lay off using that nickname for awhile," Dave answered finally, his hand on Hotch's shoulder, squeezing lightly as though he hoped to somehow ground him with just that small gesture.

And maybe it was working, he wasn't sure.

"You don't have to do that, Dave," he answered tiredly—_not weakly_, his mind vehemently argued. "I need to learn how to deal—," he started, only to be cut off with a glare from the other man.

"There are a lot of things that I _don't have to do_, Aaron, but that just because I don't _have_ to do something doesn't mean that I will _choose _not to. Remember what I told you in the hospital? We're going to help you, whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole."

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither flinching nor breaking the glare, until finally Hotch sighed and nodded in pained acquiescence.

"Good," Dave bit out a bit harshly. "Now come on," he all but ordered, getting to his feet and then roughly hauling Hotch up on by one arm.

Hotch looked at him in some bewilderment until Dave explained.

"Oh no, you're not getting out of watching Star Trek with us _that_ easily."

He blinked. _That was easy? _

. . .

Dave watched him calmly as he paced up and down the expanse of the den. Jack was coming to spend the night with Hotch for the first time since his abduction, and naturally he was more than a little anxious about the entire experience. Sure, he had visited with his little buddy since it had happened, but he had put off actually having Jack spend the night because he wasn't sure how things would work out, given the problems he had been having with flashbacks and nightmares. He would have put it off even longer if Jessica hadn't told him how much Jack had been missing his daddy over the past couple of months. Of course she knew about what had happened; he had told her and he was sure that someone else—Morgan or Dave probably—had likely taken her aside and explained the more finicky details of the situation as well.

For some reason, none of that had seemed to matter to her, and when he had tried to argue the point, she had ended it by telling him that none of it would matter to Jack either.

"Aaron," her use of his first name hadn't bothered him for some reason. "Jack just wants his daddy. He understands that you've been hurt and that you're not going to be the usual happy go lucky kind of person he's used to," here she had given him a very sarcastic look. "It doesn't matter though, because he's your son and he wants you!"

_For whatever reason,_ Hotch thought morosely to himself.

And then the time for pacing and worrying was over, because Jack and Jessica had arrived.

"Daddy!" His son had turned into a torpedo. That was the only explanation for how the little boy had managed to leap straight into his arms from all the way over at the doorway.

"Jack!" Hotch had his arms tightly around his son and was hugging him back as hard as he dared.

"Hi Uncle Dave!" His son waved from his arms, but when Hotch made put to him down, Jack shook his head wildly and clamped his legs tighter around his torso.

"Oof," he said aloud, catching Jessica's eye from across the room.

_See what I mean?_ She said with a look.

"Okay, pal. I won't put you down if you don't want me to."

"Good," his son said fiercely, giving him a very Hotchlike glare.

He blinked in surprise and then moved them over to sit on the couch. Soon, Jessica was making her goodbyes, and then they were left alone with Dave once more.

"And Aunt Jessica said you was hurt, and that's why I couldn't come over," Jack paused in the midst of his happy chattering, looking up at him from his lap with an expectant look.

"I was," Hotch answered slowly, watching Dave in his peripheral vision. The older man had sat down at the other end of the couch, and was observing their interaction silently.

"Are you all better now Daddy?"

"Almost. Uncle Dave is helping me. That's why I'm staying here instead of my apartment."

"I like it here better anyways! I like climbin' the stairs!" Jack chirped excitedly.

"But carefully," Hotch reminded gently.

"Of course Daddy," Jack gave him a silly grin.

. . .

It was only later, after they had eaten the dinner that "Uncle" Dave had made, and Hotch had given Jack his bath and gotten him into bed, that he had time to sit down and reflect on the relationship he had with his son. He remembered what Michael had said about his own father—how could he not? But now in the silence that was left after his little boy had gone to bed, he couldn't get the thought out of his mind.

How could a father _rape_ his own child? Not just once, or even on occasion—that was enough to make him shudder—but for _years?_ Because clearly, that was how long Michael had been abused by his father. There was no doubt of that in his mind.

With those thoughts on his mind as he fell asleep, it was little wonder that he had nightmares that night. It was sometime after two in the morning that the feeling of Dave's hand shaking his shoulder finally cut through the very real nightmare he was caught up in.

The first thing he saw was Dave standing at the side of his bed, a teary eyed Jack being held securely in his arms as both waited patiently for him to fully wake up.

"Jack?" He asked in confusion, blinking hard to clear the sleep from his eyes.

"Daddy!" Jack wiggled out of Dave's arms and launched himself at his body.

"Why are you up buddy?" He asked, peering over his son's soft head at the still silent Dave.

"You hads a bad dream, Daddy! And I couldn't wake you up, so I got up Uncle Dave instead!"

"Did I scare you?" A very real fear of his own and one of the reasons he wasn't sure if Jack should visit yet.

"You were crying, Daddy. I wanted to make it all betters, like you do when I have bad dreams," his son answered honestly, concern evident in his face as he gripped Hotch's t-shirt tightly with his little fingers.

"It wasn't a problem Aaron," Dave's sleep roughened voice broke through his worrying. "Jack's my buddy too, right?" He said with a smile to the small boy.

"Right!" Jack quipped brightly, still not letting go of Hotch's shirt.

In all of his concern for his son, Hotch realized that his nightmare had completely slipped from his mind, but now as things were leveling off, he was starting to recall some of the images with more clarity. Largely unaware of his physical actions, he wrapped his arms around his son's small form more firmly, pulling him up on his chest to rest his chin on his head. In turn, Jack seemed to be melting into his body, the little boy's head drooping as the night's excitement was exchanged for sleepiness.

"Can I sleep with you tonight daddy?" The small voice was already a great deal fainter than it had been even two minutes prior.

"You want to?" Some of the uncertainty for the safety of his son came through in his hesitantly spoken question.

"Uh huh daddy," sleepy boy eyes looked up at him and he couldn't help but smile at his son. "I wanna make sure that the monsters don't come back again."

_How could anyone ever hurt such an innocent thing! _His earlier thoughts reasserted themselves in his mind with a vengeance.

"Okay buddy," he agreed with a small smile.

"Can Uncle Dave sleep here too?" Jack asked, perking up a bit to look up wide eyed at his face.

"Son?" Hotch asked, caught off guard by the strange request his son had just made. From the looks of Dave's face, the other man was faring no better.

"In case you have another bad dream!" His son answered as if it were the most sensible thing in the world. Hotch supposed it was in terms of little boy logic. "It can be like a sleepover," Jack added, settling back down on his chest once more.

"Well, I don't know Jack," he responded, raising his eyebrow at his friend who was still waiting patiently next to the king sized bed.

"Please Uncle Dave?" Hotch knew how hard it was to resist sleepy boy pleas, and if the small smile on Dave's face was any indication, Jack would be winning this round.

"Aaron, I honestly don't mind," Dave shrugged.

Jack was nearly asleep again anyways. Dave would just have to wait five minutes and then return to his own bed, if he wanted.

"Okay, fine," Hotch sighed, but did so with a smile; sliding back down under the covers properly while Dave went around to the other side and did the same. It wasn't as though they hadn't shared a bed before while on cases.

Hotch felt the warmth of another body slip its way closer to them and fought against the chills of déjà vu. It was simultaneously both like Michael and like Haley, and quite conversely, it was nothing like either. For one, he had never felt Michael get into the bed, because his captor had always drugged him to sleep. And with Haley, _he_ had usually been the one climbing into bed after she had already been there for some time.

Both of those people had always caused him some anxiety in bed, if not downright fear, but Dave was an entirely separate entity. His presence was warm, but not mentally or physically taxing on him. He was safe, and therefore Hotch was safe.

Hotch pulled the covers up more securely around the now sleeping form of his son and turned his head to look at his old friend.

"You can go back to bed now if you want. He's asleep," he said in a quiet voice.

"I told you Aaron. I don't mind. If it puts his mind to ease, I'll stay. Unless you won't be comfortable with me here?" Dave looked at him in askance.

"I'm not bothered by your being here." It was the closest he could get to saying that Dave's close proximity made him feel safer.

"Then I'll stay."

Hotch imagined the smirk that was no doubt gracing Dave's face now, but didn't say anything else. Sleep was quickly retaking his senses.


	3. Fathers

_**A/N –**__ Just a little short burst today. _

"_One often calms one's grief by recounting it." ~Pierre Courneille_

**Chapter 3 – Fathers**

Hotch woke up slowly. He was very relaxed—something which hadn't occurred in an _extremely_ long time. He was laying on his right side, with Jack curled up comfortably against his chest. And Dave—he looked and realized that his old friend was just behind him, left arm draped protectively over both him and Jack. It was certainly an odd position to find himself in, closely sandwiched in-between his child and his friend, his _male_ friend no less. He supposed that if it been anyone other than Dave, it likely would have triggered a flashback of some kind, if not something worse. But his fear was mysteriously absent, which was also unusual.

He was glad that Dave was clothed though; otherwise, flashbacks of feeling Michael's furry chest tickling his back the first morning after would surely have been unavoidable.

He looked down at his son again and lightly touched his soft hair with his left hand. His son turned over, but didn't wake up, instead seeming to curl up even tighter into his embrace. He was glad his child felt secure with him. He certainly would have never dared to ask to sleep in his parent's bed, let alone feel the desire to begin with.

"He looks almost angelic, don't you think?" Dave rumbled quietly in his ear, making him start a bit as he hadn't realized the other man was awake. "Sorry," his old friend quickly apologized, patting him on the shoulder and removing his arm. Then the bed creaked as the other man rolled over and got out. Hotch felt the chill touch his back from where Dave had been moments before. For an instance, he felt an inane urge to tell him to come back, but he kept his mouth shut and it slowly passed.

. . .

"Did you ever find that your emotions towards Tobias were conflicted?" Hotch asked Reid in a conversation later that week.

Jack had gone back home with Jessica, and he was spending the evening with Spencer. Dave would have been there with him, but Hotch had demanded he spend a night out for once. In exchange, Dave had coerced the younger man into coming over and staying with him. As much as Hotch enjoyed the boy's company, he wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of being forced to sit through any more marathons, Star Trek or not.

In order to avoid the inevitable, he had instead started in on a conversation with him about a subject that he was sure Reid would understand.

"Conflicted how?" Spencer was looking warily at him, and he didn't blame him for it. Tobias Henkel was still very much a tender topic for the young doctor, but not nearly as much as his own recent trauma was for him.

"Did you ever feel both angry with him and sad for him?" Michael's father had been very much on his mind since his visit with Jack.

"Sure. Of course I did, Hotch," Spencer answered openly, looking brightly at him. "He was both the object of his fear and the result of it," he dropped his eyes and chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. "Did you experience something like that with Michael?"

"At one point, Michael revealed to me that his father had raped him for as long as he could remember," he answered slowly, his eyes narrowed as he carefully remembered the conversation.

Spencer nodded at him. "That makes a lot of sense, especially if one takes into account that 93% of juvenile sexual assault victims know their attackers. More importantly, studies have shown that more that 34% of attackers are family members of one kind or another."

_34%? More than a third?_ Hotch had read the reports before, but it was different than actually seeing and _speaking_ to a recipient of such abuse. _Especially such a twisted one like Michael,_ he added quietly.

"I—I could never do that to Jack," Hotch wasn't sure why he was saying this, just that he _needed_ to. He ran a hand through his hair, slumping a bit in his chair as he did so. _What my father did to me was bad enough, but at least he never __**fucked**__ me. _

The thought made him more than a little ill. Looking up, he realized that Spencer was looking at him worriedly.

"I know you would never do that Hotch," the young doctor said in a hesitant voice. "Are you worried that you might try to?"

"No, I don't think so. I just can't get the idea out of my mind that someone could hurt a child, a child like _Jack_ in such a heinous way." He shook his head morosely. "I feel bad for Michael, but at the same time, I hate him too."

Initially, upon becoming a father, he had been worried—more than worried—that he would turn into his own father and end up hurting the people whom he loved the most in the world just like his old man had. Yet, for all of that fear and all of his uncertainties, he had managed to do what his own dad had not, and found a way to keep his anger under control. He knew, had known for a long time in fact, that he had anger issues, but with a childhood like his, that was to be expected, right?

"For becoming so much like his father?" Spencer prompted, looking at him in a calculating way.

"Maybe it could be argued that he was simply a product of his environment," he answered somewhat helplessly. "But if that were true . . ." He trailed off, uncertain of how much to actually confirm for the intelligent young man sitting in front of him.

"If that were true, then why didn't you do so as well?" Spencer finished slowly, watching him carefully.

"My father," Hotch whispered, dropping his gaze from the patient brown eyes still on him. "He was . . . not a nice man. I don't pretend to be all sunshine and roses either," he took a steadying breath and made himself look back up. "But I swore to myself that Jack wouldn't have to grow up like that, like I did."

"Always afraid," Spencer added in a low voice when he didn't continue.

He nodded quickly, turning his head away.

"It's okay to hate Michael, you know that, right Hotch?"

It wasn't so much that he hated him. It was far worse than that. He reviled him for everything that he had forced him to experience. He despised him for every nightmare he had; for every time he doubted himself now; every flashback, every fear laden breath that he felt ratchet through him.

"I know," he answered in a low voice, his eyes distant.

"Just so long as you don't let it consume you. Because it will, if you let it, Hotch," Spencer warned him.

"I know," he refocused his eyes on the young man before him, adding a small upturn of his lips as he did so. "I remember."

. . .

Spencer didn't leave until Dave got back; meaning Hotch's thoughts had no time to cool off from their insistent tugging on his brain. As soon the other man walked in the door, Hotch knew that they would be talking that night.

"Looking pretty serious there Aaron, even for you," Dave said, sitting down beside him on the sofa.

"Haley always said that I only had two moods," he answered, trying to smile, but having a feeling that it had come across more as a grimace.

"They would be?"

"Moody and asleep."

Dave cocked his head to the side, pretending to think. "Yeah, that sounds pretty familiar," he answered, giving him a real smile. "Of course, if that were true, then we'd have to count pissed off and serious as one thing, and that would just be wrong."

"Why's that?" He asked, feeling the sudden desire to play along.

"Because there's clearly a difference between the two; your eyebrows go down more when you're pissed off." A broader smile and he couldn't help himself. Hotch laughed aloud. It was a completely ridiculous conversation.

"And you spend time studying my eyebrows as part of your daily routine because—?"

"Otherwise I'd never know when to duck. If they go all the way down, I'm gettin' out," another smile graced his friend's lips, and once more he found himself grinning back, if only ever so briefly.

Dave made him feel warm inside, but not uncomfortably so, by helping to drive away the chill that seemed to have settled in his limbs following his rescue from Michael. He was lucky to have a friend like him.


	4. Observations

"_Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys." Alphonse De Lamartine_

**Chapter 4 – Observations**

Now that he knew Dave watched him as closely as he did, he had begun to notice it himself, along with a few other anomalies.

His friend seemed to know more about this kind of trauma than most people, even those within the BAU, and slowly but surely, Hotch was beginning to suspect that there was something more there that Dave hadn't told him about.

The problem was that he couldn't just come out and say, "Hey Dave, ever been assaulted?" It wasn't exactly a good way to start out a random conversation, even if they _had_ known each other for a long time.

Hotch thought back through what he knew of the other man, realizing as he did that there wasn't very much to think of. He knew that Dave had a younger sister who had died while still in her teens, but he didn't know the details of it. He could likely get Garcia to dig around for him, but he really didn't want to. If Dave had wanted him to know, then he would have told him by now. It simply wasn't his business. He snorted to himself at the irony of the statement. By all rights, there were _so many things_ that weren't his business to know about, yet that hadn't stopped him in the past, had it?

He shook his head. He was in bed under his covers, staring at the ceiling and thinking. His nightmares had slacked off a bit as of lately, and he hoped that they would stay that way. It was tiring to dream of horrific things every night and then be expected to get up in the mornings and continue on as always.

That was the thing though; Dave _didn't_ expect him to do that. _He_ expected it of himself, but Dave didn't.

And then there were the dreams he had when he wasn't having nightmares.

Last night, for example, he had dreamed about Dave. It was not unheard of, dreaming of another member of his team, but this was not at all the same kind of thing at all.

For one, Dave had been very close to him in his dream, possibly even in his bed. For another, he and Dave had been the only two present in the dream. The situation also hadn't revolved around any cases, previous or imagined. Hotch closed his eyes and briefly tried to recall the sensations that he still remembered. He had spent most of the dream listening to his friend speak. Dave had asked him repeatedly if he was okay, how he felt, and even what he wanted. Hotch's brow creased as he remembered surge of pure _wanting _that he had felt when he had been asked that. What on earth did that mean about him? About them? Them? There was no "them." They were friends, just friends.

Hotch shook his head and tried to think back to the dream once more. _Warmth_—he remembered that Dave had been very warm; his touch causing butterflies to appear in his stomach and other places as well. Hotch felt heat rise in his cheeks as he thought about the other places that had reacted to the dream Dave. He'd never dreamed about a man in this way, and now that he had, he wasn't sure what to do with the feelings that he had been left with.

The intellectual side of him tried to argue that his growing _awareness_ of Dave was nothing more than a side effect of his being abducted and _raped_—there was that dreaded word again—by another man. Dave was everything that Michael had not been; considerate, comfortable, empathetic and above all else, _safe_.

Was it possible that he wasn't as straight as he had always thought? He and Haley had been together straight out of high school, so there hadn't been any chances for any kind of outside experimentation while he was in college. Truthfully, he had never even _thought_ about looking at a man, but now that the idea had been rather forcefully introduced to him, he found that he couldn't as easily turn off that side of his brain and return to how things had been _before_.

Probably he was simply over thinking everything. Dave was just his friend, and he asked him to stay at his house because he was worried about Hotch readjusting after his _ordeal_. If Dave was watching him more than before, then it was because he wanted to make sure he was healing.

So what would happen after he was healed and moved back into his lonely apartment by himself once more? Would Dave's awareness of his every move drop back down into nothingness? Or had Hotch been fooling himself all along? Was it possible that Dave had always been more watchful than he had ever given him credit for?

He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of much of anything anymore. All he knew was that he felt safe with Dave, and that the feeling wasn't the same with anyone else.

He resolved to talk to Derek about his changing feelings. If anyone would know, it would be him.

. . .

"Can I ask you something personal?" Hotch asked the younger man a few nights later.

Derek Morgan looked up at him with a serious expression. "What about?"

"Carl Buford."

A muscle twitched in Morgan's jaw at the mention of the man who had molested him through most of his teen years, but otherwise there was no reaction. Hotch wasn't sure whether he should be worried or not.

"What about him man?" Morgan asked; his voice unusually rough.

"After dealing with him," Hotch asked slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Did you ever find yourself questioning your sexuality?"

Hotch waited with bated breath while Derek seemed to consider his question. His was a very personal inquiry; not one that he could easily ask very many others on their team without being excessively questioned.

"Sometimes, yeah, more than sometimes I did. I think that's pretty normal though," Derek shrugged. "Is this about what happened to you with that crazy unsub down in Texas? You been having thoughts?"

Hotch nodded. His throat didn't seem to be working very well for some reason.

"Did you ever question yourself before?" Derek looked at him, and he tried to swallow past the mental obstruction.

"No, but lately I've started having these dreams . . ." he trailed off, uncertain of whether to mention Rossi or not.

"Of the unsub or someone else?"

"Someone else."

"A man?" Morgan's expression was thoughtful, and the look in his eye had become calculating.

"Yes," he said, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

"Well, it's not like you're the first person to ever have a dream about someone of the same sex as them," Morgan said, pausing in thought for a moment. "Hell, have you ever had a prostate exam?"

"Yes," he answered warily.

"Ever gotten hard during one?" Morgan didn't wait for his response, but went and plunged ahead in his explanation. "It's pretty normal if you have. My doc knows that I've got some past issues regarding that area of my body, so before doing any procedures _down there_," Morgan gave him a pointed look, and Hotch cracked a small grin the other man's terminology. "My doctor always makes sure to explain everything to me, including what usually happens to most people. The prostate is pretty easy to manipulate, and it's really sensitive."

"Now, I don't know everything that the unsub did to you while you were with him, but if you're worried about having gotten off from what he did to you, then you're worrying for nothing man. Rapists, especially ones that rape men, like to make us think that we got hard because we _liked_ what was done to us, but it's not true. It's just the way we work down yonder, you get me?"

"I—I remember thinking that Michael was trying to use my body against me," Hotch admitted quietly.

"You're right man. He probably was. Ol' Buford liked playing sick mind games too," Derek's eyes narrowed.

"Care to explain?" Hotch asked gently, feeling more in his element as he watched his subordinate fidget uncomfortably in front of him.

"Not really," Derek gave a bitter bark of laughter. "But maybe I should anyways. My therapist keeps trying to get me to talk more, and I might as well talk to you as to her, you know?"

"Your therapist is female?" He asked in some surprise.

"Yeah. I couldn't handle the idea of being alone with an older guy while I explained what another older guy did to me back when I was just a kid."

"I understand," Hotch said. And he did.

"Yeah. Well, Carl used to mess with our heads, telling me and James that if we dreamed about him, then that meant that we wanted more of it. He'd tell us that he'd stop if we didn't get hard, but you know, we were just teens. I mean, stiff breeze and all that, right?" Derek's jaw twitched again, and Hotch watched carefully as the younger man looked down at his hands, which were trembling slightly.

"We couldn't make it stop. We knew that if we said anything, all the help he was giving us would just go away, and we'd end up rotting away our days there in the neighborhood, or getting carted off to jail. Who'd listen to two teen boys anyways? Both of us had gotten in trouble before," Derek shrugged, blinking hard as he struggled to tell the story.

Hotch tentatively reached out his hand and laid it on top of the other man's clenched fists.

"You're not alone anymore, Derek. Tell me that you know that," he instructed softly, leaning forwards to try and catch the other man's eye.

"Yeah, I know Hotch-man," Derek answered, a weary smile on his face. "But at the time, there wasn't any way out of it."

He nodded. That was how he felt while with Michael too. That was also how he had felt growing up with his bastard of a father.

"Michael kept me tied up in one way or another the entire time I was with him," Hotch spoke slowly, not wanting to tell his story, but feeling that Morgan needed to hear at least some of it.

"You really couldn't get away," the younger man nodded.

"I didn't like what he did to me," he said slowly, his eyes distant and hard as he recalled the uncomfortable memories. He held up a hand as Derek seemed ready to speak, and the other man leaned back again to let him finish. Hotch had a feeling that if he didn't say this now, he would never get it out.

"I didn't like it, but at the same time, my body reacted to it," he could feel his fists clenching up again. "On some level, it felt _good_, and that made me hate him even more for making me feel something I didn't want. Intellectually, I knew—I know better, but—," he wiped his sweaty hands off on his jeans.

"But you still hate him for making you hate yourself," Derek finished for him after he found he couldn't continue.

"Yes. I don't like feeling weak or needy, and he made me feel both repeatedly," he answered in a gravelly voice.

Derek nodded at him. "Hotch man, believe me when I tell you that I understand. The worst of it is waking up at three in the morning after a nightmare wondering if there couldn't have been more you could have done to make it stop, you know?"

He nodded, wide eyed.

"But there wasn't anything else you or I could have done. It's over man. It's in the past, and you have to learn how to live with the knowledge that it happened, and that there's nothing you can do about it except keep going."

"Except that makes me feels like I'm doing nothing," Hotch said.

"But it's not. Figuring out how to keep on living is sometimes the hardest part. People don't understand that, but survivors do." Morgan looked up at him seriously before cracking a grin. "Now this man that you dreamt about, do I know him?" Morgan asked with a small smile.

"It's not you," Hotch answered quickly.

"But you didn't say anything about me not knowing him, right? Uh huh," Morgan laughed mischievously. "Better not be my little brother Reid, right?"

Derek stared him down and Hotch was suddenly very grateful that his dreams had not been about the much younger man currently in question. "No."

"Then if not Reid . . ." abruptly Morgan's eyebrows went up and Hotch let out a groan, briefly hiding his face in his hands.

"Dude, are you talking about who I think you are?" The self-satisfied grin across his subordinate's face was embarrassing to look at, so he tried not to.

"It's not like it matters, Derek. He's straight, I'm straight. It doesn't matter. It's not going to happen."

"Who you trying to convince? Me or you?" Derek laughed again and Hotch felt his cheeks begin to burn again. "Besides, I know for a fact that he's not as straight as you think he is," the other man said with a knowing wink.

_What?_

"What do you mean? He's had three ex-wives, remember?"

"And half a dozen ex-boyfriends," Derek laughed at the flabbergasted expression on Hotch's face. "Come on, you're telling me that you never once noticed any of that?"

Hotch numbly shook his head in the negative.

"And you call yourself a profiler?" Morgan snorted playfully.

"No inter-team profiling," Hotch answered weakly.

"Right."

"Is that how you learned about it?"

"Naw man. Ever since Alaska, you've been rooming me with him a lot more. Sometimes we stay up and talk, you know?"

Hotch knew. Sometimes it was impossible to go straight to sleep after the more twisted cases, regardless of how exhausted you were.

"What about his reputation as a womanizer?"

"Just a half truth," Derek shrugged. "Look, Rossi put it to me simply: 'I just like sex. I'm not that partial about whom with.'"

"So, what should I do?" He asked after letting that sink in.

"Don't stress about it Hotch. He's had his eye on you for awhile. If he doesn't yet know you're watching back, then he will soon."


	5. Learning About Comfort

"_Breakdowns can create breakthroughs. Things fall apart so things can fall together." Anonymous_

**Chapter 5 – Learning About How to Be Comforted**

He was dreaming again. He had to be dreaming. Why else would Michael be in his bed? Looking around, he realized with a start that he wasn't in _his_ bed at all. He was in Michael's. He was back in the warehouse.

"Help!" He tried to say, but nothing came out of his mouth. His throat was swollen.

Abruptly, Michael was there with him, one hand on his leg with the other on _him_, on his groin, stroking him for all he was worth. Hotch moaned at the feeling, trying both to pull away from the hand and push into it at the same time.

"You're my whore, aren't you Aaron," the look on Michael's face was positively lecherous, making him turn his head away with a cry. Then, fingertips were touching his anus, pushing in dry, making his flesh _burn_ with the pain, with the shock of what was happening to him.

_Aaron_.

"No! Not again!" He tried to yell, to shout and make the bastard _hear_ him, but all that came out of his mouth was a small puff of smoke.

Suddenly the taste of peanut butter was back in his mouth and he could feel the sickening feel of Michael's cock pushing into his unprepared flesh. The combination of the two was too much, and he choked at the feel of vomit bubbling out of his throat.

"Time for your medicine, Aaron," Michael laughed, handing him a big jar of peanut butter. "My pretty pretty Aaron. You want it, don't you? You want me to make you bleed. Feel this?" Michael pounded himself into his ass and Hotch howled.

"Aaron, I need you to wake up now," Rossi's voice finally broke through his dream and with a mighty effort, he wrenched his eyes open.

"D-Dave?" He blurted out in surprise. Around them was the scent of sickness and to his great mortification he could see that the trail of vomit led back to him. "God, Dave. I'm _so _sorry," he gasped out as he moved away from Dave's comforting arms.

Perching on the opposite side of the bed, Hotch roughly pulled off his soiled shirt; the task made more difficult by the tremors in his hands. The terror was still rolling through him, and it was all he could do just to keep from breaking out into sobs. He knew that Dave was still on the other side of the bed, and he couldn't let himself breakdown like that in front of him. He just couldn't. Barely aware of it, he wrapped his arms around himself and began rocking back and forth with his eyes closed, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his head.

He nearly jumped out of his skin with he felt Dave touch his arm, the surprise allowing a choked sob to make it past his firmly clenched lips.

"Dave, don't," Hotch pleaded, turning his head away from the other man, desperately not wanting his oldest friend to see him unraveling like this.

He didn't know he was cold until he felt Dave's warm arm drape around his shoulders.

"Aaron—," Dave started, only to be interrupted by Hotch recoiling backwards at the sound of his name.

"Don't call me that," Hotch put his hands over his ears and resumed rocking. After a moment, he dropped his hands and moved them back around his chest.

He couldn't stop shaking. There were tears in his eyes that wouldn't go away, no matter how many times he angrily swiped at his face. And underlying all of it, he could _feel _Michael's hands on him; _hear_ his voice whispering and laughing in his ears.

"Hotch," he heard Dave's voice cutting through his misery and he finally looked up.

For some reason, that simple word was all that it took to send him over the edge, and abruptly his tears were spilling down his face, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. Somehow he managed to pull himself to his feet; turning his back on Dave as he tried to get away from the sight of his worried face. He glanced at the time and was unsurprised that it was after three in the morning.

He worked his way across his room and into the bathroom, where he pointedly avoided looking at his reflection. He knew who would be staring back at him. It would be Michael, just like it was in all of his other fucking nightmares. It didn't matter that he was awake. Michael was always there, leering at him behind his back.

He brushed his teeth brusquely, trying to get the taste of vomit off of his tongue as he did. He could see Dave in his peripheral but didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. His tears were still falling, and his hands were still shaking, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.

It wasn't until he finished with his teeth that Dave tried speaking to him again. By this point, Hotch felt wretched enough that he didn't care much one way or another.

"Feel better?"

Hotch gave his old a friend a look that told him exactly how he felt about such a stupid question.

"Guess not," Dave shrugged.

Hotch wiped futilely at his face once more. His tears seemed to be slacking off finally, but his shudders hadn't. He stepped forwards, but Dave was still standing in the doorway in his way.

"Dave, please _move_," he tried to order, his voice coming out much weaker than he had hoped for.

He wasn't sure how much more interaction he could take. He just wanted to go curl up in a dark corner somewhere and hide.

"Hotch," Dave said with a sigh, holding out a clean t-shirt to him.

"Thanks," he whispered, putting it on clumsily. His trembling fingers didn't want to work.

He started to move back towards his bed, only to be stopped by an insistent hand on his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" Dave demanded with a stern look in his eyes.

He flinched back and immediately saw his old friend's face turn apologetic. Damn it, he was an adult. He wasn't afraid of crap like this. He wasn't!

_I haven't flinched like that in years,_ he thought furiously.

"Come on Hotch," Dave waved his hand at the door. "You're not going back to sleep there. Your sheets are still messed up."

"Just show me where some spares are then," he bit out through clenched teeth. His tears were threatening to come back, and he honestly didn't care about the fucking sheets.

"Hotch," Dave shook his head and then grabbed his arm more decisively. "Come on. You're sleeping in my bed tonight."

"What?" He tried to stop and turn to look, but Dave wouldn't let him.

"So I can make sure you don't choke," his friend all but growled at him. "Now get a move on!"

It didn't take long to get to the other man's room, and once they were there, Hotch felt the hand on his arm directing him into the rumpled bed in the center of the room. Once more, he felt a burst of guilt as he realized his nightmares must have woken Dave up—_again, _he thought angrily.

"Move over," Dave directed, pointing a finger to the center of the bed. He tried arguing once more, but was silenced with another glare.

He got into bed and lay there stiffly on his back. After turning out the lights, Dave followed him in, lying down close beside him. He wondered if the other man could feel the shaking of his body, or the way the tension was rolling off of his muscles from his efforts at trying to control himself.

"Damn it Hotch, if your old man were still alive, I'd beat the absolute tar out of him. He sure as hell didn't do you any favors when he taught you to hold all of your emotions in, Hotch. I've thought that for years, but never have had a chance to do anything about it."

He blinked. Whatever he was expecting his old friend to say, _that_ certainly was not it.

"I'm going to teach you something that you need to know, and I don't want you giving me any flak about it, got me?" Dave said forcefully, his voice just above a whisper.

"Dave?" He questioned; a touch uncertainly.

"Just keep your mouth shut," Dave instructed, moving a bit closer to him.

He tried to remain still and not move away, but it wasn't easy, especially not knowing what was coming next. He could feel his body begin trembling even harder, and he had to close his eyes to control himself.

"Here's what's gonna happen: I'm gonna put my arms around you and you're going to do the same to me. It's what _people_ do to comfort one another, Hotch, and it's long past time that you learned how this works."

"You can't possibly be serious," he managed to choke out as he felt Dave's arms move around his body.

"Damn right I'm serious," his friend growled. "Now turn over and put your head on my chest, Hotch, before I have to show you just how fucking serious _I_ am."

Hotch found himself moving according to the other man's instructions. He told himself that he was only doing it because he was tired, because he was emotionally exhausted. Why else would he now be curled up next to Dave in his own bed, feeling the other man's arms around him?

"Next you relax, Hotch. You relax and you cry on me, getting my shirt wet. And you know what I'm going to do?"

He shook his head, completely out of his element.

"I'm going to keep on holding you, Hotch. Eventually you'll tire yourself out, and you'll fall asleep. And I'm just going to keep holding you. And tomorrow, when we wake up? We're _not_ going to pretend like this never happened. This _did_ happen. I comforted you and you felt better for it. And that's all there is to it, get me?"

He nodded slowly, his cheek moving up and down against Dave's warm chest. His friend wasn't as built as he had been back ten years ago, but he hadn't let himself go either. He was still just a solid core of power, of strength, with just a little softness around the edges now.

"I can't just _cry_, Dave," he whispered harshly into the darkness surrounding them.

"Then just relax Hotch," Dave answered, running his hand gently through his hair.

Hotch closed his eyes tighter and did as the older man instructed, hanging on to his friend tightly as he continued to ride out the waves of his leftover terror. The smell of peanut butter had finally dissipated, leaving nothing but the clean smell of Dave in the air. The other man's aftershave was understated, just barely present at the edges of his senses, but it was enough to surround him, make him feel secure that this was Dave and not Michael that he was currently curled up so securely against.

"I hate feeling like this," he finally said after a few more minutes of silence. His face was nearly buried in his friend's chest, and it was a wonder that Dave understood him at all.

"I know," the hand was still in his hair. He wondered if Dave understood the effect that simple touch was having on him. It was _gentle_, comforting even. It made him want to break into a thousand pieces and melt, all at the same time.

"I hate Michael. I hate what happened," he bit out with a small strangled sob. His shoulders were beginning to shake again as his tears started up once more.

"Go on Hotch, let it out. I'm not going anywhere."

"It hurt," he gasped out, tightening his hold on his friend, and being comforted as Dave's arms pulled him just slightly closer.

"And the things," Hotch swallowed roughly, glad that Dave couldn't see his face. "The things he had m-me do, Dave. He made me feel so dirty," he shuddered again, his mind trying to take him back to that horrible time.

"He made you ashamed," Dave's hand began to stroke the side of his face.

Hotch nodded his response, not worried that his friend wouldn't feel his reply, considering their proximity. His throat felt as though it had closed up again.

_It had just hurt so much_, he thought exhaustedly, putting his head down and letting his tears fall silently onto Dave's t-shirt.

It took a long time that night, but eventually his tears finally stopped and dried up. His breathing began to level out sometime after that too, getting more in sync with Dave's own as he finally began to relax.

"Sleep, Hotch," Dave whispered at long last, pressing a small kiss onto his forehead.


	6. Unexpected Advances

"_Grief drives men into habits of serious reflection, sharpens the understanding, and softens the heart."_

_John Adams_

**Chapter 6** – **Unexpected Advances**

Hotch woke up the next day tired and disoriented. For one absolutely heart rending moment, he thought he was back in Michael's bed, and then he saw Dave and was able to relax again.

"You okay?" His friend asked quietly a few moments later.

"I've had better nights," he admitted in a low voice.

He felt raw, both inside and outside. His throat still hurt, his head was pounding, and his stomach felt uneasy.

_Oh yes, I'm just the epitome of good health right now_, he thought sarcastically. _Between this, the nightmares and my insomnia, I'm just fucking wonderful. _

"Not much better than being hung over, huh," Dave said, giving him a sympathetic smile.

"Got a lot of experience with crying yourself to sleep, Dave?" Hotch asked, a touch more bitterly than he had planned.

"Not a lot, but enough to be memorable," Dave answered with a slight shrug that Hotch could feel from where he was still resting against his upper body.

He didn't know what to say to that. The whole conversation was making him uncomfortable. And if that wasn't bad enough—_damn_. He rolled over, trying to make it less obvious that he was sporting an erection while sharing a bed with one of his best _male_ friends.

_Fuck fuck fuck, _he thought wildly.

"Problem, Hotch?" Dave had a knowing smile on his face, and Hotch thought he could easily punch him just for that.

"Nothing, just need to take a piss," he answered, lying straight through his teeth to one of the founders of the BAU. _Not one of my smarter moves._

Dave seemed to consider his answer carefully, staring at him with an analyzing expression, before shaking his head and moving closer. Hotch barely dared breathe as Dave moved his body right up next to his.

_There's absolutely no chance that he doesn't know, _was his more than desperate thought.

"You're going to have a problem with that, I think," Dave pointed out, touching his calloused hand to his face gently.

"Dave, I—ah—I," he stammered uselessly, his eyes wide and unsure.

He felt Dave's hand move around to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until their faces were less than a hand width apart.

"Dave, what—?" He tried again, only to be effectively cut off by the feel of his friend's lips settling down on his own.

Kissing Dave was _nothing _like having his mouth taken control of by Michael. Dave's facial hair tickled, but not unbearably so. It was a simple lip to lip experience, completely closed mouthed. As far as kisses went, it hardly could be considered exciting or daring, but somehow it was.

"Is this okay?" Dave whispered when he finally pulled away from Hotch's stunned face.

He nodded, not trusting his voice, let alone his brain, to say anything remotely intelligent at present. Dave smiled gently and then repeated the process, moving his fingers into Hotch's hair this time.

His lips were warm, warmer than the rest of him even, and they quite literally took his breath away. Hotch had little basis of comparison for the sensations coursing through his body now. Kissing Haley had been sweet and soft, but their kisses had never had the underlying current of electricity that he could feel with Dave.

And Michael, well there wasn't even any point in mentioning the difference between his kisses and Dave's. Michael had made him feel horrible just from being in his presence. His touch had done far worse things to Hotch's psyche altogether, making him feel as though his heart was being turned inside out every time he had felt the unsub's fingers on his skin.

But Dave was safe. He knew Dave wouldn't hurt him. More importantly, Dave wouldn't _let him_ be hurt.

. . .

Hotch tentatively made his way into the kitchen where Dave was making breakfast. His hair was still wet from his shower, but thankfully his insistent erection was gone. He had gotten rid of it himself, not quite sure what this thing was between him and Dave was yet, and therefore not quite at ease at the idea of allowing his friend to touch him _there_.

_And it's not as though Dave offered or anything_, he thought with mild amusement.

"Waffles okay with you?" Dave asked upon seeing him.

"Sure," he answered with a small grin.

Breakfast with Dave was just breakfast. The other man didn't say anything smart about his shower, and he didn't offer any information either. With Haley, breakfast time had usually been full of painful guilt ridden silences as he prepared himself to go back to the job she hated. By the end of their marriage, he had given up on breakfast, and was usually out of the house before sunrise.

He blew on his coffee and looked over at Dave to see how the man was faring on his own meal. Dave tended to eat slower than anyone Hotch knew, but this morning they had somehow managed to eat at the same speed. His friend seemed relaxed, seemingly unconcerned about those electrifying nerve tingling kisses that they had engaged in earlier that morning.

_Does that mean that they were just some kind of accident? Do I even care? _

Funny thing was he did care. He had never felt that way before—regardless of gender—and the idea that it might be over before it had begun bothered him. _Whatever "it" is_, he silently added.

"You're worrying. Stop it," Dave said out of nowhere, not even bothering to look up from his coffee at him.

"Dave, I think we should talk," was his slowly spoken reply.

His friend looked up; warm eyes staring unthreateningly back at him.

"Come on then," Dave stood, offering his hand to Hotch. After a split second of indecision, he took it, not letting go until they were seated on the sofa, the next room over.

For a moment, they just sat and stared at one another. Dave seemed to be perfectly at ease with letting him make the first move, and as much as he appreciated that, he wasn't exactly sure where he should start.

_Might as well go with the familiar._

"Dave, when you said you would have gladly hurt my father, did you mean it?"

"I did," his friend answered in a serious voice. "The bastard hurt you."

Dave wasn't asking him. He knew already.

"And that's not okay?" He responded with a teasing smile.

"It's not," Dave replied gruffly, reaching out and laying his hand on Hotch's shoulder. "How would you feel if someone hurt Jack?"

Hotch's lighthearted mood evaporated as those words sunk in.

"I'd take them down," he answered in a low voice. The memory of Foyet threatening his family popped into his mind and he shivered.

"Then you understand something of how I feel," Dave shrugged, looking at him thoughtfully. A moment later, the older man scooted closer to him and wrapped his arm around Hotch's shoulders.

He froze, not sure how he should react to that.

_Dave's just a friend. This is him comforting you again_.

But he wasn't just a friend—not anymore.

"Calm down," Dave whispered in his ear, his goatee tickling the side of his face. And remarkably, Hotch managed to do exactly that, leaning slightly into the other man's embrace as he did.

It wasn't at all the same thing as Michael telling him to "_relax_." That memory still gave him chills when he thought about it.

"I won't hurt you—I can't," was the next thing Dave added, his voice still soft. "I've been thinking about this for a long time."

"This?" Hotch got caught on that word.

"I want you to be happy, Hotch. Excuse me if this if this is too presumptuous for you," Dave smiled broader before continuing, "But I think I can help you with that."

He looked down at his hands which were still in his lap. They were clasped together, a clear sign that he was nervous. What exactly did Dave want from him? And why?

"Why would you want to?" Hotch asked, turning his dark eyes to look more closely at Dave's warm ones.

"I _like_ you Hotch. I've always _liked_ you," Dave let out a semi-exasperated sigh. "This conversation makes me feel like I'm thirteen all over again," he groused.

_Dave likes me_. The realization, however simply put, still made him blink.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing that you don't want also," Dave answered adamantly, moving his face closer to his own.

"What if I'm only comfortable with kissing?" He whispered, not entirely sure that he had said the words out loud until Dave reached out and laid his other hand on Hotch's cheek. Dave's hand was hot, even a touch sweaty, as though his friend was just as nervous about this as he was. Of all things, that put him most at ease about the entire scenario.

"Does that mean I can kiss you again?" Dave responded in a voice that was half whisper, half growl.

_He wants me_. It was an alluring thought, maybe even arousing.

Dave's lips touched his own once more and he surprised them both by kissing back. He felt his hands relax in time to reach out and grab the front of Dave's shirt with one and brace himself with the other.

"Is this okay?" Hotch was the one to ask when they stopped briefly a few heated moments later. Unconsciously, he found himself licking his lips, unaware that Dave's eye had caught on the motion and was watching with a mesmerized expression.

"Yes," Dave answered throatily before reaching in and kissing him again.

This time, Hotch relaxed a little bit more, opening his mouth and tentatively swiping at Dave's lips with his tongue. Dave let out a moan against his mouth and he soon felt the answering heat of his friend's tongue touching his own. Distantly, he felt Dave's hand burying itself in his hair, and he felt his body respond with fervor to the simple touch. Their tongues still flitting around one another, Hotch suddenly readjusted himself by moving up to straddle Dave's lap. In turn, the kiss deepened, and he found himself stroking the front of Dave's shirt with one hand, and holding on with dear life to the back of the couch with the other.

Their bodies were hot from being pressed chest to chest, and he could feel his groin beginning to wake up too. Not quite sure that he wanted it to progress that far, he finally made himself break up their kiss and look down into the face of the man who wanted him.

It was strange to think that both Dave _and_ Michael had wanted him, but for completely different purposes. Michael wanted his _body_; Dave wanted _him_. More importantly, Dave knew what kind of man he was, good and bad, and yet he _still_ wanted him.

"You like me," he whispered into Dave's face. "You want me."

Dave nodded energetically, reaching out and cupping his face gently as he did so. Hotch felt tears pinprick his eyes and abruptly found himself blinking hard.

"It's okay," Dave murmured, pulling him down into another embrace, letting Hotch rest his head on his shoulder. "I've got you, Hotch. That's right, let it out. Don't try to keep it in," he felt Dave's hand begin petting his head and back, and he whimpered softly as his emotions rolled over him threateningly.

"Even with what happened? Even with what Michael did?" He whispered out with difficulty into Dave's nearby ear.

"I still want you, yes," was Dave's rough response.

That's all it took to undo his final control, and suddenly Hotch found himself sobbing out loud on his friend's shoulder once more; the memories of pain and degradation flowing wildly through him as he did so.


	7. Challenges and Promises

_**A/N – **__I considered letting this fic devolve into nothing but smut, but I decided against it. On the other hand, that leaves me room for another sequel, so yay! lol_

"_The most glorious moments in your life are not the so-called days of success, but rather those days when out of dejection and despair you feel rise in you a challenge to life, and the promise of future accomplishments." Gustave Flaubert_

**Chapter 7 – Challenges and Promises**

"Derek told me that you've had relationships with men in the past," Hotch said to Dave one evening a few days later.

Their relationship—_if you could call it that, _he thought idly—had continued on at much the same rate, not progressing past kissing as of yet. Dave seemed to have no problem with that, but Hotch had found himself wondering if that was only for his benefit, or because that was just how his friend operated in all of his relationships.

"I wondered when he'd mention that to you," was Dave's mysterious answer.

"Were you telling the truth?"

"I might have exaggerated a _tad_ about the number of relationships I've had with men," Dave said with a slightly contrite look.

"A tad?" Hotch peered closely at him.

"A tad," his friend shrugged. "I've only been in two serious relationships with men, but have had more than half a dozen random trysts over the years with a few others."

"Any currently?" He asked, trying not to let himself feel jealous over the idea of Dave being with someone else. _It's not as though we've actually_ been_ together, anyway. _

"No. Hotch," Dave looked squarely at him and then reached out to take his hand. "I know there are many rumors about me out there, but for the most part, they really aren't true. I might play the field from time to time, but only with one person at a time. I don't cheat on people I'm with. And I don't share either," he stated pointedly.

Hotch felt himself relax at his friend's admission. To emphasize that, he squeezed Dave's hand and then was gratified to feel him squeeze back.

"Are you certain that I can keep your attention?" He asked, hoping that he didn't look as anxious as he felt.

"You've kept my attention for a long time, Hotch. There's no reason to think that will change anytime soon," Dave's face was completely serious, and he found himself nodding back silently at him.

"How long?" His throat a bit raspy.

"Since we met," Dave whispered after a period of silence. "I found myself drawn to you, and that attraction hasn't let up since."

"Attracted physically?" He asked tensely, trying to withdraw his hand as memories of Michael abruptly clouded his mind.

"Actually, it was your mind that drew me in initially," Dave answered, tightening his hold on Hotch's hand. "And your loyalty."

Abruptly, he found himself slumping back into the couch as Dave's words finally sunk in.

"Michael said that it was my power and presence that made him want me," he admitted slowly. Even after all the time that he had spent with Dave, he still hadn't told his friend all the details of his abduction.

"He told me that and then he hit me," Hotch added, his eyes distant as he recalled the memory.

Dave let go of his hand and slipped his arm around Hotch's shoulders.

"That man is a sick fucker who deserves to be locked up for the rest of his life," was his friend's vehemently spoken statement.

"He said I was his 'whore,'" he added in a whisper.

"That _bastard_," Dave growled out beside him. "You were nothing more than his _victim_. If I could make him pay more than he is right now . . ." the older man trailed off.

"Because he _hurt_ me?" Hotch asked, returning to one of their reoccurring conversations.

"Because he hurt _you_," Dave corrected, grabbing his shirt and pulling him in for a kiss.

"And that's not okay," he responded a bit breathlessly when they separated.

"Damn right it's not," Dave answered, finishing their conversation effectively with another mind numbing kiss.

. . .

They got ready for bed that night, like they had been every day that week. Dave was still insisting on their sharing a bed, and while Hotch had argued the point a bit, he hadn't really been too unhappy with the arrangement. If nothing else, at least his nightmares didn't leave him gasping and alone in the dark anymore.

"Dave?" Hotch asked after the lights were out and they were both in bed, curled up close to one another. It was still strange how safe he felt next to his friend.

"Hm?"

"Can I touch you?" He whispered, not entirely confident that he could do this.

"Say again, Hotch?" Dave leaned in closer, laying his hand on Hotch's shoulder.

"I want to touch you," he answered in a louder voice.

"Go ahead then," Dave's voice was encouraging, if a bit breathless.

_What on earth am I doing? _The rational side of his brain tried to argue.

Fingers trembling, he reached out his hand to touch Dave's chest through his t-shirt. It was warm, even through the cotton. He slid his fingers over to his friend's bare arm, rubbing his thumb over the soft hair that was there. He didn't need light to know that the hair was black, but it did send a throb through his gut to wonder if all of Dave's hair would turn out to be that color.

"Take your shirt off," he ordered, feeling the fluttery beginnings of both anxiety and excitement begin working in his stomach as Dave wordlessly obeyed.

"Hotch—?" Dave started to ask, only to be hushed by him.

Touching Dave's bare chest gave him an undeniable thrill. He touched the other man's stomach, tracing a fingernail around the edges of his navel, before moving his hand up to where he thought his nipple was. Dave's answering gasp was enough to tell him that he was right and he smiled to himself in the dark. It was empowering to him that he could excite Dave by just touching his _hands_ to him.

_If this is how he responds to just my fingers, _the thought made him smile again. He liked being in control.

Barely hesitating, he raised himself up on an arm and brought his mouth down over Dave's nearest nipple.

"Holy—," Dave hissed, bucking up under his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the small nub and then gently bit down. He was rewarded with a gasp, but no other exclamations. Deciding to change things up once more, he released his prize and then leaned over and bit down on the other, only a bit harder.

"Hotch," Dave wheezed, his hands going up to grasp his shoulders. Satisfied with his experiment, he opened his mouth and lay back down beside Dave, whose breathing was now markedly different from his own.

"Does that mean I get to touch you now?" Dave asked after it became clear that he was done for the moment.

"Depends on where you want to touch," he answered back quickly. Memories of waking up naked with Michael waiting behind him were still rather close to the surface of his mind.

"Same places you did," was Dave's reply.

"Ask me again."

"Hotch," he could feel Dave's hot breath against his cheek and knew that he was safe. "Can I touch you?"

"Yes," Hotch answered, his teeth not quite gritted.

"Shirt off?"

He complied, pulling it off quickly, not giving himself a chance to back out. The idea of making new memories with Dave appealed to him, even through his anxiety over the act itself. The air was cool on his skin, making the touch of his friend's warm calloused hands on his flesh just that much more noticeable.

"I love how you smell, Hotch," Dave said, rubbing his nose across his stomach.

"Better not be a _pretty_ smell," he answered, trying to make his voice light to hide his own revulsion for the connotations of that memory.

"It's a smell of strength, of fortitude," Dave answered, his goatee tickling his stomach, making him squirm. "Ticklish much, Hotch?" His friend laughed into his chest.

"Not on your life," he growled, playfully batting at Dave's hands.

"Maybe later then."

"Maybe," he answered in a low voice, his mind beginning to drift back over to the feel of Michael's unwanted hands touching his body.

"Hotch," Dave growled at him, touching a hand to his shoulder and then kissing him hard. The kiss did more than just relax him; it reminded him of where he was and who with. Nobody kissed like Dave.

"I'm going to kiss your right nipple now, Hotch," Dave informed him in a rough voice, barely giving him time to catch his breath. The feel of Dave's hot lips on his flesh followed soon after, causing him to gasp in turn.

"And now your left," he could feel Dave shifting his body weight over to anoint the other half of his pectorals with that same oral praise. The touch of those lips calmed him and sent jolts of electricity down his spine at the same time.

"Dave," he ground out deeply, reaching out and attaching a hand to the man's shoulder. He could feel the muscles moving under his skin, and he took a deep breath to prepare himself for the next touch.

"Navel," his friend whispered, laying a trail of kisses down to the aforementioned body part. "Tongue," the man added in a gruff voice as he got there. Hotch felt the wet heat of Dave's slick tongue moving in and out of his navel and he gasped aloud, turning his head sideways at the intense of feel of it.

_Such a little thing! _

And then the immediate heat from Dave's mouth was gone, leaving his body nearly trembling from the overload of sensations that had been bestowed on it in such a short period of time.

"Are you okay?" Dave's voice was in his ear, his hand gently cupping the side of his face.

He nodded shakily, confident that his friend would be able to discern his answer from the hand still touching him.

"You're sure?" The older man's voice sounded worried, and really, he didn't blame him. He wasn't entirely sure that he _was_ okay. He was still trembling, and finally Dave pulled him tightly in against himself, tucking Hotch's head under his chin. For some reason, it didn't seem odd to feel Dave's bare chest pressed up against his flesh.

"I don't know anymore," he finally whispered against the base of Dave's neck.

"It's okay, Hotch. I've got you," Dave replied as he continued to rub soothing circles into his back. "I've got you. You don't have to be okay with me."


	8. The Story Continues

_**A/N - **__Just thought I'd let you all know that this isn't the end of the story. I finished it off in a one-shot called "Watch Me Now," which is primarily composed of graphic slash between Rossi and Hotch. *smiles*_


End file.
